


I Don't Have a Choice, But I'd Still Choose You

by bloodofpyke



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:09:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodofpyke/pseuds/bloodofpyke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robb POV; set during his siege on Jeyne's castle</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Have a Choice, But I'd Still Choose You

_It was amazing,_ he thought, lying in a bed that wasn’t his, in a castle that he had sacked, _how quickly your world could come crashing down._

The words still burned in his throat, long after the Greatjon had taken his leave, and, hands shaking, curls matted to his forehead, he had chalked it up to the fever. _It’s hard to act the king when all I want to do is run crying home to Mother,_ the thought a dry chuckle rattling through his bones. _But there is no home anymore; Greyjoy saw to that._ His eyes closed and he pictured the castle, stones smoldering on the ground, gate in splinters, and something like a sob escaped him. _The King who lost the North,_ they’ll be calling me now. He gathered the sheets in his hands and twisted, thinking _and Bran and Rickon slain, Bran and Rickon, Bran and Rickon._ He fell asleep to that tuneless chant, his brother’s names repeating over and over again in his mind, a reminder of all he’d lost, all he’d sacrificed, for _honor._

***

He opened his eyes slowly, head aching, heart bruised. He opened his eyes slowly, and saw that she had come back (or had she never left? he couldn’t be sure, and he couldn’t ask, didn’t want to ask), curled up beside the fire, dark curls spread out on the fur.

“You’re up,” she said, smiling tentatively before adding, “Your Grace.” The fire crackled as she asked, “And how...how are you faring?”

“I’ve been better,” was all he could manage. _Bran and Rickon slain. Greyjoy turned traitor. Winterfell sacked._ The words danced round and round until he felt dizzy just trying to keep up.

***

They were kissing, and he wasn’t sure how, wasn’t even sure if it was something he wanted. But, oh, he needed it; needed the warmth of another body, needed another heart beating next to his, needed the escape, the release. He felt too warm again, like his veins were laced with a fire, but he blamed it on the fever, blamed it on the words still swaying in front of him, blamed in on the tangle of dark hair his hands were stroking.

He kissed her, and wondered if he was doing the right thing, a whispered promise floating by his ear. He swatted it away, drawing her closer, this girl whose castle he’d taken _(like Greyjoy took Winterfell,_ something in him murmured, but he swatted that away too; _no, this is different, it’s not the same, it’s not),_ kissing her until he could scarcely breathe, until her skin felt as hot as his did.

Another voice piped up, mentioning the word _honor_ again and again like a prayer but he didn’t care, found he couldn’t care, because when he kissed her, it felt like something in him had mended.


End file.
